


Honey I… bought us matching swords

by lustig



Category: Les Trois Mousquetaires | The Three Musketeers - Alexandre Dumas, The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Fencing, M/M, Prompt Fill, Swords, Tumblr Prompt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-11
Updated: 2017-10-11
Packaged: 2019-01-16 02:11:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,092
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12333366
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lustig/pseuds/lustig
Summary: Treville is at a loss about what to get his lover for his birthday. Athos is not helping.





	Honey I… bought us matching swords

**Author's Note:**

> Because I love swordsmanship. And this is [Freya's](https://freyalor.tumblr.com/post/166247191623/romantic-gesture) fault. Again.
> 
> On a side note: goods swords are fucking expensive :O I'll leave it to you to think about what that means for our dear protagonists.

“Richelieu,” Athos greeted their visitor coolly. The tall professor stood in the doorway of Jean Treville’s School for Traditional Swordsmanship or, more precisely, in the dojo they had chosen for tonight’s training.

 

When the trainer heard his student’s words he whirled around, away from his current opponent, and crossed the room in three fast steps while pulling off his fencing mask. He grinned delighted and bowed with his weapon when he reached the older man.

 

“I’m glad you could make it, Armand.” They kissed, chaste yet sweet.

 

“Of course I could, dear. Happy Birthday.”

 

“Captain!” d’Artagnan interrupted them. Treville groaned.

 

“How often do I have to tell you I’m _not_ your captain till you finally stop calling me that?” Reluctantly he turned back to his students, rapier in one and the mask in his other hand.

 

“You haven’t given us a useful alternative yet, Captain,” Porthos threw in.

 

“We’re not allowed to call you _Senpai_ and _Trainer_ just sounds plain stupid,” Aramis agreed, “That leaves us with only one other option.”

 

Treville sighted in defeat yet obediently turned to d’Artagnan.

 

“What was it you wanted?”

 

“You didn’t finish showing me that trick you were –“

 

The trainer growled darkly. “Get _out_. Training’s over. The beating’s tomorrow, usual time.” The students scattered off, chatting amiably and throwing fond looks at Treville and his visitor.

 

 

 

_July_

 

“I have a problem,” Treville admitted while examining his weapon of choice for tonight. Athos hummed non-committally and picked up his own rapier. The two of them were alone; training would start in about half an hour. It wasn’t an unusual occurrence that they found each other before the official time to spar a little. Athos had been his best student for a couple of years now and one of the closest friends he had.

 

They had met at a seminary for people dealing with personal problems or failures, Treville as one of the tutors – finding an outlet with the mental and bodily control martial arts offered – and Athos as one of the participants, with a broken heart and a serious drinking problem after his now ex-wife had cheated on him. With the fighter’s help he had finally been able to move on from the broken hull he was, getting him back on his feet. Now he sometimes took the beginner’s course when Treville needed a night off, enjoying his friend’s complete trust in his skills.

 

“What’s the matter?” the younger man asked, putting on the mask and walking over to the centre of the room.

 

“Armand’s birthday. Did you pick a dagger?”

 

“No, sorry.” Athos walked over to one of the racks. “What’s with his birthday? Did you miss it?” He tried to turn his head, yet stopped when the mask refused to fully comply with this movement.

 

_Zish, zash_ , Treville’s blade hissed when he did one, two testing strokes.

 

“Nah. His birthday is in September. I just… don’t know what to get him.” Athos, now armed with rapier and dagger, finally turned back to make himself ready. They respectfully greeted each other with their blades.

 

“That’s still two months off, Jean,” his friend stated incredulously. “Why are you already thinking about that _now_?!” He made a step forwards, aiming and thrusting the tip of his rapier to Treville’s chest. He deflected him easily and _tsk-_ ed.

 

“Get your hands up, and why the hell are you slouching like that! Did you spend too much time with the beginners again?! Your defence is all off.” To demonstrate what he meant he slapped him on his sword-wielding hand and danced away when Athos tried to get a hit in return. The younger man growled.

 

“And I’m thinking about it because the thing he gave me on mine was incredibly thoughtful and sweet.”

 

Double step. Attack. Parry. A dancing retreat.

 

“And you can’t think of something similarly sweet?” He moved with more caution now, his hands in the requested position.

 

“It should be something personal, something that makes it clear it comes from me yet is neither offensive nor useless. Relax your shoulders, you’re too tense.” They danced around each other a little more, rapiers clashing every now and then. “Pay attention to your footwork. The bigger the steps you make, the slower you are.”

 

“Didn’t you order a couple of new swords, just two weeks back or so? And one all fancied up, with your school’s coat of arms and stuff?” Athos asked when they both stepped back, breathing heavily. “Why not make two of them? You met him on one of those seminaries you like to give; didn’t you two stick together because he was so incredibly impressed by your sword-handling skills?”

 

Treville pulled off his mask, looking aghast.

 

“I can’t just gift him a sword,” he dismissed the idea, putting down his weapons and grabbing a bottle of water. “That’d be ridiculous. What would he do with a _sword_?”

 

“Display it in his bureau? Finally come around to train with us? I don’t know. But it’s still a sign of the cross and there were enough saints with swords around to hide your relationship behind.” Before Treville could answer the door opened to reveal the trio of Aramis, Porthos and d’Artagnan. Training was about to start.

 

 

 

_September_

 

“Richelieu,” Athos greeted their visitor, a little warmer than usual. The professor leaned against the door frame, one hand in the pocket of his coat, the other holding the ornate leather sheath of a longsword.

 

The dojo was filled with about a dozen students, working through an upper strike – Krumphaw combination according to the teachings of Liechtenauer. Treville didn’t turn around. That was a first.

 

“Evening, Athos,” the older man replied when it was clear the trainer would not jog over as it was usual for him. “Do you know what this is?” He lifted the longsword, raising a brow simultaneously. “I got a delivery mid-lecture and half of my students are afraid of me now.”

 

“I’m pretty sure they were afraid of you even before that,” the younger man grumbled under his breath, yet turned around to call: “Captain!” through the room.

 

Treville finally came over, taking off his mask. He looked at his lover with a sheepish expression, his own weapon safely positioned against his shoulder.

 

“Hi.” The mask was put on one of the armour racks.

 

“Hi. Care to elaborate?” Richelieu’s smile was kind, amused. Full of fondness. He lowered the arm carrying the sword.

 

“I… bought us matching swords,” Treville admitted, turning his own hilt around to show the delicate patterns to the professor. “Happy Birthday.”


End file.
